


When Thorin rants...

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [40]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A little smutty, Dworin Week, Inspired by Art, M/M, ranting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11513574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Dwalin spends his time listening attentively because he loves him!(no, really, he does, it's just watching Thorin all flushed and angry makes himthoughtful)





	When Thorin rants...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thorin ranting](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/307380) by Kappathealien. 



Thorin was ranting. He was also pacing, in what Dwalin privately – he wasn’t daft enough to say it out loud – had dubbed his ‘I-hate-all-Elves-but-I- _particularly_ -hate- _that_ -Elf-that- _smug_ - _Elf_ - _bastard’_ -pacing. The afternoon planning session had begun quietly enough, discussing provisions for the trek and trying to think up different places where they might be able to resupply during the Quest. Unfortunately, _someone_ – here, Dwalin felt supremely justified in scowling at Glóin – had suggested that they travel through the Forest, perhaps even barter with the small settlement somewhere around the middle of the Old Forest Road. With the fickle nature of Elves in mind, it was no surprise that the settlement seemed to move from year to year in the minds of the oldest among their number who still remembered trading with the Elvenking. It did make accurate planning slightly more difficult, but still _not_ as difficult as when _someone_ – Dwalin once more felt a harsh glare was warranted in the direction of his Firebeard cousin – mentioned the name _Thranduil_ in Thorin’s hearing. Frís would have sighed, and left the room to make a cup of tea when Thorin began his long-winded and surprisingly inventive – after 170 years, Dwalin was rather impressed that Thorin could still come up with new insults for the haughty Elf – rant about the Elvenking. Unfortunately, Frís was dead, going on eight months now, and no unobtrusive cup of tea would be appearing in Dwalin’s immediate vicinity as he pretended attentiveness – growling and grunting in the right spots had become a habit by now – as Thorin continued steaming. _If I didn’t love him so much…_ Dwalin thought, sending another glare Glóin’s way for good measure. The normally boisterous merchant had a glassy-eyed look on his face as he stared at the King. Dwalin thought it had been about an hour since Thorin really got started, which meant it was about an hour until he’d run out of steam, at which point Dwalin would have to intervene physically, if only for his own peace of mind, unless he wanted to suffer a sulky, brooding Thorin for the rest of the day. Dwalin had far more fun ways to distract his love in mind, of course, and felt quite pleased that Dís had gone hunting with the boys, trying to cram as much time together into the short window of time they still had before they were to set off for Erebor. They had the house to themselves, and Dwalin planned to take advantage. As he half-listened to Thorin, Dwalin’s mind began spinning far more pleasurable scenarios in his mind.

“So, we’ll avoid Thranduil, then,” Glóin said, when Thorin stopped for a breath after a particularly solid insult. Dwalin wanted to groan. His cousin truly did not have the sense Mahal gave him at birth, or perhaps it had leaked out of him since the last time Dwalin had spoken to him, because _why else_ would the numpty mention _that_ name _again?!_ Leaning back in his chair and folding his massive arms over his chest, Dwalin scowled at Glóin. At this rate, they’d have a _very_ late dinner and he might have to shorten his ‘Distract Thorin’-plan, which was _so_ not what he deserved for putting up with the both of them. Thorin threw up his hands, his face twisted into a rictus of anger as he nearly hissed at Glóin. Balin was calmly looking over some reports Nori had compiled, making notes in the margins. Óin had put his hearing horn down and seemed to be taking a nap, earning him a glare of envy from Dwalin. Sleep would be a more productive use of the time than listening to Thorin’s ‘Thranduil is a bastard’-rant for the Mahal-forsaken nth time, though Dwalin had to admit he enjoyed seeing Thorin flushed and agitated like this. It usually boded for a particularly satisfying time later, and Dwalin felt the trade was worth it. Losing himself slightly in staring at Thorin’s eyes, darkened with anger, Dwalin returned to the realm of his imagination. He spent several minutes thinking up other ways to use Thorin’s pretty mouth, ways to shut him up, just a while, until he couldn’t help but spill over with sounds Dwalin _wanted_ to hear. Of course, those hands, fluttering like particularly frantic birds as Thorin gesticulated angrily, had their own tasks in his plans-to-come, and he could almost feel them gliding over his skin already, tweaking a nipple here, tracing a scar there. Thorin’s legs… well, Dwalin had always thought their strength was better displayed when they were wrapped around his waist as Thorin rode him as hard as he was currently stomping across the room. Of course, they agreed on the usefulness of Thorin’s long locks as a place to bury frustrated fingers – even if their frustration wasn’t currently _quite_ the same type. Dwalin particularly liked wrapping his fingers in the soft thick strands, using the braids he had plaited this morning to steer Thorin’s mouth towards his own. Turning his attention back on Thorin for a moment, ignoring the sudden tightness in his groin, Dwalin realised that they had reached the cool-down stage. Glóin looked ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, and Balin caught his eye with a subtle twitch of fingers that told him the scribe would be leaving as soon as possible too, leaving Dwalin to deal with the aftermath of Thorin’s riled temper. Óin was snoring, rather loudly, which almost made Dwalin laugh. He caught himself in time, kicking his cousin’s chair lightly.

 

 

 

Later, as they lay in their bed, sweaty and sated, Thorin looked at Dwalin, his lips swollen from kisses and grinned. He had often wondered why Dwalin always seemed intent on having him as soon and as often as he could after one of his particularly long rants, but he couldn’t deny that he took advantage of the fact to get himself some good hard pounding. Licking his lips, wincing slightly at the sting where Dwalin had bit through the skin, he studied the dwarf beside him. Scars dotting the landscape of defined muscle; Dwalin was a true warrior, raw power controlled by muscle and sinew, disciplined by an iron will to match his own. His beloved was beautiful, in all ways. Of course, in his own opinion, Thorin was every bit as sexy, even with his small nose and his slimmer fingers. Dwalin, at least, had never complained, had never considered him less desirable for it. Thorin kissed him, turning it soft and languid, the way they only did when they were fully satisfied, simply desiring closeness. “Is it my voice that turns you on so?” Thorin wondered, not realising he’d spoken the words aloud.

 

Dwalin simply smiled.


End file.
